


Path of Sunshine

by blackcricket



Series: Faerie Rings and Troubled Things [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Dryad!Courfeyrac, F/F, Gender Neutral Pronouns, Implied Relationships, M/M, Other, Phoenix!Enjolras, Purple Prose Because Jehan Demands It, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Supernatural Elements, Vampire!Combeferre, fae!Jehan, mage!Grantaire, nonbinary!Jehan, pining!Enjoltaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23232313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcricket/pseuds/blackcricket
Summary: "You talk an awful lot," he says. “More than I expected.”Arms flung wide, Jehan beams at him. "Why shouldn't I? There's so much to adore here. Now, mind, I haven't been precisely many places, haven't even made it to the village yet because I got sidetracked by this lovely cedar tree, that the woodpeckers were absolutely devouring—"
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Faerie Rings and Troubled Things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670344
Kudos: 17





	Path of Sunshine

The path from the train station is sunshine dappled, the trees aglow with summer-green. Jehan cannot bring themselves to look away from the looming majesty of this forgotten path; from black squirrels squabbling and willows tresses blown aloft in a sudden, dancing breeze.

They halt a moment; scribbling a couplet into the skin of their wrist. The moment turns into a verse, words taking root even as between the straps of their well-worn sandals, their skin is freckling. If Jehan were still confined under their mother's roof, they might summon an inkling of care—but here, leaves caught behind their ears, a chain of violets tangling down their wrist, such worries are farther than the arctic.

Pen tucked back behind their ear, their skirt hem now tucked jauntily into their belt, Jehan skips on. With each step, notebooks jostle against their spine, yet the knapsack containing them remains forgotten. It has been a long time since Jehan has explored grassy lanes, climbed apple trees in bloom, and fell asleep among the heather. A long time since their childhood. They are determined to soak up every scent; memorize the twittering song of every bird. Each moment spent here, sleeves rolled past their elbows to reveal the horde of inky poems scribbled during the day's journey, feels like revenge.

They start humming, the wind a harmonizing orchestra.

From the bushes to their right, a shadow melts into focus. "New to town?" It asks.

Jehan shrieks and scrambles behind the nearest tree.

The shadow sighs. "I apologise in advance for startling you; it's a hazard of my existence." They brush a hand through the ginger spikes of their skull; leaf clippings scattering from between their fingers. "I'm Feuilly. He/him pronouns."

Instantly, Jehan brightens, and skitters out from behind the tree. Their hair is undoubtedly a fright, their skirts ripped through, but somehow they can't help grinning. "Jehan," they say, waving cheerfully. "They/them pronouns. I just arrived today. The train station looks wonderfully haunted by the way. I don't know anyone here, so that felt like the start to a gothic novel. The manager, Mme. Cosette—such a lovely woman, she looks like Helen of Troy don't you think?—was the perfect welcome if so."

Feuilly tips his head to the side, ashes scattering across his shoulder. "You talk an awful lot," he says. “More than I expected.”

Arms flung wide, Jehan beams at him. "Why shouldn't I? There's so much to adore here. Now, mind, I haven't been precisely many places, haven't even made it to the village yet because I got sidetracked by this lovely cedar tree that the woodpeckers were absolutely devouring—"

"If you need a place to lodge for the night, Mlle. Eponine's place is your best chance. She'll take you in, no questions asked, so long as you can pay."  
Jehan bites their lip. "What if I, um, could pay in other ways?"

Feuilly raises an unamused eyebrow. "She won't take you to bed if that's what you're asking. Eponine would send you packing if you suggested that—and not just because she's being courted."

Jehan inches forward, pen twirling between their fingers. Inspiration is a scent upon the wind; an itch within their veins. "Courted?" They ask, the frivolities of paying for lodging swallowed to their mind's tide.

Feuilly sighs, longingly eyeing his abandoned shears. "We do things a bit . . ." he hesitates, brows furrowing in thought. "Traditionally around these parts."

"What do you mean by that?" Jehan asks.

"Just what I said," Feuilly states firmly. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to leave me to my work, there's a lot to be done before my meeting tonight."

Jehan perks up. "Meeting?"

To their surprise, Feuilly only laughs; the sound of it crackling roughly through the countryside. "You'll be invited soon enough," he says, an undeciphered promise ringing through his words.

Jehan frowns. "And if not?"

Feuilly picks up his shears and heads off into the bracken, crocus bulbs flinching from his iron-shod boots. "Trust me," he shouts over his shoulder. "There's no chance of that."

A hop, skip, and a jump away, Jehan stumbles across paradise. Through well-maintained hedges, peacocks and spaniels dart. Flowerbeds of tulips and roses clamber in joyous harmony toward a small pavilion, where upon a checkered blanket, two strangers lounge.

Crouching amidst the shrubbery, Jehan stares at them. One is draped chest-first, across the grass, bare feet swinging above their back. As they gesture, clearly in deep conversation, their once-embroidered sleeves are abandoned to the gnawing attention of a speckled puppy. Amidst the shadows, their companion sits, book in hand, a constellation-embossed parasol tucked into the crook of their shoulders. Every inch of skin is shielded from the sun.  
They seem rooted into the landscape; unchanging as the planets orbit.

Watching them; the movements withheld, the laughter a brand across the cloudless sky, a poem springs to mind. Pen in hand, Jehan looses themselves to the flurry of words flooding thick and fast across their skin. There are words for people like this, words for strangers who unlock the door of your mind with their mere presence. There are words for folk that stay within the shadows on a cloudless day; for laughter that burns every listener but the one it was meant for. There are words upon words upon words and as they reach the third verse, Jehan flops down among the heather to continue writing them, eyes flicking back and forth between the inky-hurricane of their freckled skin and the sunshine-enveloped strangers.

\-----

"You are not seriously supporting the argument that the supposed needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few!"

Grantaire smirks. "History contains several documented cases—"

"No one ever learns from history's mistakes, therefore that cannot be held as a standard for moral behavior!" Enjolras shouts, irritation gnawing at his skin as he gestures.

Stepping down from the train he'd thought his feelings would return to normal. Being away from home made the world go numb in a lot of ways. The constant stress of needing to accomplish tasks, of needing to solve every problem, dulled to a background hum. The metro system, the constant crowds, the press of glass skyscrapers against infinite sky . . .

It used to feel inevitable. It used to feel like the next step in his plan for achieving worldwide solutions.

Now, he can't imagine a fortnight spent away.

"—and of course if you remain silent then I'll take that as confirmation that you condone the use of—"

"Verbal agreement has been used since before the first recordings of history, but in no instance has silence been regarded as a legitimate form of agreement." Grantaire flashes a strangely genuine smile at him, tucking his hands further into his pockets. "Just keeping you on your toes, Apollo."

Enjolras stares at him a moment, then clears his throat. "Why you insist on continually pose an argument against legitimate—" he cuts himself off.

Just outside the gardens, a stranger lies sprawled through the grass. Despite the racket of their argument, they take no notice of Enjolras and Grantaire's approach, head bent over the inner skin of their thigh, pen scrawling across freckles with wild abandon.

Grantaire nudges Enjolras; a spell of silence dropping thick around them. "Do you think we should . . . interrupt?"

Enjolras frowns. "Given that it appears to breach the privacy of Combeferre's property, yes. I believe that is the best course of action."

Grantaire waggles his eyebrows; the knife of their proximity lodging in Enjolras's throat with sudden vehemence. "Lead on, O Fearless Leader."

Two hours ago, he had stepped off the train, jacket slung over his shoulder, and Grantaire had slouched out of the shadows to greet him. One hour ago, he had argued his way through the village, deposited his luggage at his apartment over the print shop, and trailed a paint-splattered, bruise-knuckled Grantaire through grassy lanes to Combeferre's home.

Two hours ago, he had stepped off a train and at the sight of Grantaire something had settled back into place, familiar as the knobs of his spine; familiar as the arguments of equality he strives to practice.

Enjolras huffs. "I don't . . . what do people even . . ." he trails off, uncertain.

Grantaire pats his shoulder, light as the first snowfall of the season. "Don't worry, chief," he says, stepping forward. "I got this."

"Past experience suggests otherwise—"

"What? Am I so below the common populace that your subscription to second chances need not apply?"

"That's not what I meant—"

Grantaire grins, something sharp twitching in the corner of his jaw. "You needn't trouble yourself on my account, Apollo. I know my worth is paltry." He steps toward the stranger again, nonchalance veiling his features in amusement.

Chest seizing, Enjolras snags his arm. "Grantaire—"

He stills. The world gone quiet within the space of their contact. Enjolras's hand burns. His mouth is dry.

In the garden beyond, one of Courfeyrac's puppies yowls.

Enjolras startles, grasp loosening.

Grantaire swallows wordlessly. His features are frozen; skin turned to glass. Limbs slow, he turns to address the stranger, the ensorcelled silence of their approach dropping away. "Stalking is a bit noticeable in a town of less than eighty," Grantaire drawls.

\-----

Out of nowhere, two strangers appear.

Jehan does not startle, merely puts their pen down. "That's a fairly vague statement," they say, neutrally. "Easily mistaken as a threat."

The pair exchanges a glance. Beneath the whispering trees their very limbs appear to be defying gravity, shoulders leaning close even as their hands are kept apart. The paint-splattered first is grinning sardonically, while Red Jacket brushes a hand through blond hair; frown scrawled deep. Unspoken words seethe between them; whether threats or vows, Jehan can't decipher. Only the presence of withheld emotions rings clear; their eyes guarding longing with the precision of years.

Patiently, Jehan awaits judgement.

\-----

Courfeyrac sits up, the earth beneath his limbs humming with warning. "Did you hear that?" He asks, peering through the gardens toward the outer edge where the forest looms.

Over the cover of his book, Combeferre smiles. "You know I did."

"Right, right," Courfeyrac says, with a distracted kiss to his knuckles. "I'm just going to go check it out." With a snap of fingers, he directs one of the older dogs, a setter named Matisse, to follow him. "I shall return with the answer to our disturbance, never you fear."

“It's likely Feuilly hard at work, or Bahorel having disturbed him,” Combeferre drawls from beneath his parasol.

Courfeyrac laughs, grass rustling beneath his bare feet. “Perhaps, but you shall be deprived of my company until I can be certain.”  
Puppies clambering across his long limbs, Combeferre returns to his book. The shade of his parasol does not even attempt to disguise his smile.

\-----

In a distant corner of the garden, Feuilly continues clipping the hedge with his immense pruning shears. Whatever the commotion occurring, he is not responsible.

\-----

"It has nothing to do with that—"

"Oh, pardon me, I forgot I had the foremost expert present. Please, by all means, grace us with the solution to world hunger!" Grantaire snaps.  
Jehan has no idea now silence turned into this.

It might possibly be a regular occurrence, however, given the familiarity and speed with which they are able to counter each other's arguments. By this point, Jehan is fairly certain of two things. That the paint-splattered one is called Grantaire, and that Red-Jacket is likely to change the world—if only through sheer stubborn idealism.

Also that the likelihood of Grantaire conceding an argument is less than the sun spontaneously imploding.

Jehan isn't sure if this is an amusing fact, or a horrific one yet.

With a mellifluous laugh, the dark haired angel from the lawn strolls through the hedges, trousers and skin stained with grass streaks. "Now, I know that I'm gorgeous but the master of the house is unfortunately reluctant to host any uninvited guests at this time, so if you don't mind—Enje!"

Without warning, Red-Jacket lunges forward.

\-----

Courfeyrac is ecstatic. “You’re back!” He shrieks.

Enjolras withstands his hug for barely a two heartbeats before he fidgets away, still bristling with frustration. "Courf, I've missed you enormously—"

"And we will snatch the time to catch up, just not right now because you need to finish your argument with Grantaire?" Courfeyrac guesses; and if there is a tint of smugness to his tone, very few could interpret it.

Enjolras winces. "Yes?"

Courfeyrac pats his cheek. "'Ferre is in the garden, don't leave him waiting too long," he instructs before turning to face the stranger. They beam at him, and wave cheerily. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance! I'm Jehan, they/them pronouns."

Courfeyrac beams back, then twists at the waist to bow formally. "Monsieur du Courfeyrac at your service." He winks.

Jehan pretends to hide a smile behind their ink-smudged fingers. Their dancing eyes give their amusement away. "And your pronouns?"

Courfeyrac straightens with a laugh. "He/him, if you please." He gestures toward the waiting gardens, Grantaire and Enjolras now stalled mid step amidst the flowerbeds; their argument hushed but growing in volume with each moment spent staring into each other's eyes. "Shall we?"

Jehan hefts their skirts up with a hand, something like a storm surging through their veins where blood should linger. The wind is ringing in their ears; it is whispering promises of far-off lands, of adventures disguised. Jehan only laughs. Today, there are strangers a sentence away from becoming friends; that is adventure enough.


End file.
